


Not Understanding The Appeal

by afteriwake



Series: Closer To The Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hair Kink, Haircuts, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade Fluff, POV Greg, POV Lestrade, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Silver Fox Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade just did not understand Mycroft’s fascination with his hair. He just hopes he still appreciates him now that most of it has been cut off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Understanding The Appeal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticlolipop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticlolipop/gifts).



> So this is another cheer-up fic written for the lovely **majesticlolipop** since she's a Mystrade shipper and i'm in the mood to write that ship! This is the other fic I had considered writing before I wrote the other fic, and this one was inspired by an **otpprompts** prompt (" _Person A keeps on insisting that person B has 'sexy hair.'_ ") Anyway, sweetie, I hope you enjoy it.

He didn’t understand why, exactly, Mycroft made such a big fuss about his hair. 

It was just…hair.

He’d never been particularly fond of it, not really. Growing up he’d had all the imaginable atrocious haircuts his mum had given him, until he’d been packed off to boarding school. Then he’d had military regulation haircuts, and that had been all right, he supposed. It saved him all the fuss of having to try and fit in with what was cool and hip.

Of course, then he'd gotten out of school and went to university and decided it was time to rebel, went all the way to the punk movement. Shaved most of it off except a strip that he’d dyed blue and spiked up, sharp as he pleased. Stayed that way for three years, nothing changing except the lengths and colors of the spikes, until he decided to settle into something more respectable, seen about being more serious about joining the police force. Took an electric razor to it one night and shaved it all off, easy as you please.

After that, once he let it grow back, he kept it at a high and tight while he was in uniform, keeping it simple. Then, when he got promoted to Detective Sergeant, his mentor told him it was time for a change. Something more mature, less “fresh from the field.” So he let it grow out again, got it smartly styled by any number of barbers recommended by any number of sergeants and inspectors at the Yard, all of whom said their barber had “the magic touch.”

Hair was just hair, though, and he just let them all give him the same trim no matter who was behind him, wielding the scissors and razor.

And then, of course, his met His Highness, and he caught His Highness’s brother’s eye.

And then it all got tricky.

Mycroft was…posh. He’d been used to posh; there was the idea that there was something thrilling about the posh types “slumming it,” back when he was in university. He’d been with a few of those types when he was figuring things out, trying to see how he wanted to settle down. Of course, when he’d gone respectable he’d hidden that side of himself. Respectable meant being straight, no pansiness, no sign of him fooling around with men.

That rather went out the window when he met Mycroft. He should have been turned off, because if anyone had known his type from back in the day, they’d have suspected he’d be more attracted to Sherlock than his brother, but Mycroft intrigued him. He'd noticed Mycroft was staring at his hair, and he rather self-consciously went to fix it multiple times while the three of them were talking. He normally didn’t care; if his hair was a mess it usually didn’t bother him. It was just par for the course of being a busy DI in Scotland Yard. You couldn’t always look impeccable.

It wasn’t until a while later until that there was a black sedan waiting outside his flat, and Mycroft was inside, and he realized in the course of the conversation that Mycroft’s interest was more than professional, more than just him wanting to make sure he would be a good fit for working with Sherlock. The man was flirting with him.

That put him in an awkward position, considering he was married and all. Granted his marriage wasn’t happy, but it was a vow he’d made. He intended to keep that vow.

As much as he’d prefer otherwise.

And so time went on. He knew Mycroft was attracted to him. He was attracted to Mycroft. There were discrete glances, fleeting touches, comments that had double meanings…nothing overt, always subtle, but it was there. It wasn’t until the Christmas party, when Sherlock made the rather public mention about his wife’s dalliances, that he realized that he didn’t have to put up with it anymore. He didn’t have to put his own happiness on hold anymore to play pretend.

Monday morning he met with a solicitor.

Monday at lunch he had his wife served with divorce papers.

Monday afternoon he called Mycroft and asked if he was free for dinner.

Monday evening he was dining at Apsleys with Mycroft and having the best first date he’d ever had.

It was as simple as that.

It settled into a nice routine at that point. He would spend his days at the Yard, working on cases and chasing down bad guys, and his evenings with Mycroft. Most evenings were spent at Mycroft’s home, relaxing with a nice snifter of brandy and a relaxing meal, though occasionally they were at government functions. Not _entirely_ public, but public enough. It was a routine he enjoyed.

One of the things he enjoyed most was that Mycroft was never frugal with compliments. Never stingy with the reasons he adored him. The reason that surprised him the most, though, was that Mycroft liked his hair. He said he liked the streaks of grey, the way it blended with the black, giving it the salt and pepper look. He said he liked the way it framed his face. Mycroft had even once spent £120 on him as a gift at the barber shop he went to, Murdock London, before he’d taken him to meet Her Majesty. He spent it on a service known as the Murdock London Luxury Full Service, which consisted of a shampoo and a haircut, their Luxury Wet Shave and signature facial and the choice of a manicure or a shoe shine. Considering it was the bloody Queen he was meeting, he went for the manicure. Mycroft had spent most of the evening murmuring in his ear he was quite enamoured with his “sexy hair.”

Which is why he was very reluctant to walk through the door right now, considering most of his hair was in the rubbish bin at Clipper Of The Yard.

He took a deep breath and then put his key in Mycroft’s door and unlocked it. The alarm went off and he quickly keyed in the code. He could smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen and he knew any minute now Mycroft would come out and he’d see. He almost wished he’d worn a hat or something. It’d help lessen the blow. Soon he heard footsteps and then he saw Mycroft slow when he spotted him, pausing in drying his hands on the dishtowel he was holding. “Gregory,” he said quietly.

Lestrade gave him a sheepish look. “I was around a bunch of little ones today. One of them got a hold of a pair of scissors and cut off a hunk when we weren’t paying attention.”

Mycroft moved closer, running his fingers along the side of Lestrade’s head, just above his ear. “I suppose it isn’t too bad,” he murmured. “It’s reminiscent of your Detective Sergeant days.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a throwback,” Lestrade said, relaxing slightly. “But it’s quite a bit greyer now.”

“It’s a good thing I find grey very sexy,” Mycroft said. “It’s quite distinguished looking.”

“That’s just a way of saying I look old,” he said with a grin.

“Well, I love you even if you are old,” he said. “And just remember, I’m older than you.”

“Yeah, but now I look older,” Lestrade said as he moved closer.

“Well, I’ll try not to gloat too much.” Mycroft leaned forward and kissed Lestrade softly. “If you don’t like it, remember it will grow back. Now come to the kitchen. I have a bottle of 2010 Bodegas Mauro Vino de la Tierra de Castilla y Léon chilling in the wine cooler and lamb chops with curry coconut pan sauce and miso-butter green beans almost ready to eat for dinner.”

"Hoping to make me feel better with food?" Lestrade asked.

"Among other things," Mycroft said. He made his way back to the kitchen and Lestrade relaxed even more. Well, this could have gone a hell of a lot worse, he realized. This was good. And...it was just hair. It would grow back.

Eventually.


End file.
